Filthy Gorgeous
by fynnorian
Summary: Ah, to be in 1804! France is celebrating his liberation of Poland, whose style of dress for the occasion France finds particularly alluring. Sexual content. France/Poland


**Warsaw, 1807: Napoleon Bonaparte celebrates his arrival in Poland.**

Ah, the night is going well for France.

The ball is distinctly French, not Polish. It is also not in the Prussian style, or Russian or Austrian. That is the only reason so many of the elite have arrived to celebrate, because it is France proposing to conquer them this time – rather, liberating them, as he and his diplomats are carefully phrasing it for the time being. France detests Prussia as much as Poland. Poland is to remain a prize for France to wrest from Prussia's greedy fingers.

France glides among the elite, distinguishable only by the bicorne atop his head, which not only looks particularly flattering on him, it also serves to remind Poland whom France currently serves. In fact, the evening has quite showered France with praise and admiration, and so he feels things are going rather well. Compliments are, alas, nothing new, but from Poland's people, they are particularly… gratifying? In any case, they are most certainly welcome, especially from the pale ladies in attendance this evening.

Fortunately, the dress of the ladies is not in the conservative style of Prussian society. France is pleased, because the waists of their gowns billow out from a tight cut beneath their breasts, exposing the natural shape of their bodies, and their sleeves are short even if their gloves are long. Their hair is curled into loose bunches on either side of their heads or piled up behind in Psyche knots, not a wig in sight except on the older women. But France eyes the younger ones, and he carefully notes which of them do not have a steady dance partner so that he may steal one or two away for the evening, perhaps the night, if he is lucky.

A particular woman catches his eye this evening, with seemingly no escort in sight. She wears a bracelet of emeralds and carries a simple cream fan, her blonde hair twisted in the back. France sights her every few minutes before she become swallowed by the crowd. He finds himself following her for much of the evening, vaguely wonders if she has noticed him yet. His determination has built from the start of the ball that he will find her, and ask for a dance. Her air of mystery is tantalizing, a contrast to the girls flaunting their way past France at every opportunity.

France then must grudgingly remind himself he cannot expect to spend much time to himself during his stay with Poland. It cycles in his head, between pleasure and business. There is serious diplomatic work to be done in Warsaw, if he is going to add Poland to the collection of Nations under his roof, as well as the war with Prussia, although that was going smoothly. Winning the Poles over should not be hard, if it has not been achieved already. Why else are the wives of counts and lords decorated in their fine jewelry if not to catch France's eye? Or his boss's eye, for that matter. Already women are being introduced to his little Corsican by their husbands or mothers. Gracious as he is, Emperor Bonaparte bends over – well, not so much bends as bows his head, truthfully – and kisses their gloved hands.

Monsieur Talleyrand stands in the shadows behind France's superior, sipping a glass of something purplish that looks a bit red when the glass hits chandelier light. France retreats to the darkness beside the Grand Chamberlain and clears his throat.

"Shall I toast to success?" he asks, rather rhetorically, tilting his chin up to the balcony.

Talleyrand shakes his head silently, sips his drink: "I have not spoken to any countesses yet. Who knows what success is this early in the game?" He tips his glass to a point that all the liquid inside slides into his mouth. Then he swallows."All our Emperor has done so far is shake hands."

"And they would do well to remember its touch," France remarks lightly.

Talleyrand seems to grimace, although in the poor light France cannot be sure. "This will not become another Pressburg, my lord. I cannot allow that." Veiled threats have always been a strong point of the diplomat, France does not forget.

France rolls his eyes: "Poland is not _surrendering_, my dear Charles. He did have a choice in the matter, if you recall, and he chose me over the _Absolutist_."

"Such familiarity," Talleyrand mutters, placing his empty glass on a tray passing by, "You might be taking this a little far. Be careful not to antagonize Prussia."

"I was not going to antagonize him, Charles."

Talleyrand sighs: "Poland already considers you a savior; I will not have that image ruined."

"But of course," France smiles pleasingly, "You have already worked so hard."

"And," Talleyrand adds after a pause, "The Polish women are so lovely, it would be a shame to leave them."

That warms France's heart considerably. He pats Talleyrand on the back and grins, "You will have your share of Polish women, my dearest Charles. Shall I pick one out for you tonight?" There is one lady France will not have Talleyrand spotting; best to select one for him, best his eyes don't fall upon that blonde with the emerald bracelet and cream fan.

It is at that moment Emperor Bonaparte approaches them. He bows to France, hat swept from his head – ah, his hairline is receding, but France will not mention that.

"Evening," Bonaparte greets, "Are we enjoying ourselves?"

"No more than the Poles," Talleyrand remarks dryly.

Bonaparte chuckles in his unique manner, which begins with a wheeze and ends with a cough. He turns to France. "And have you found your brethren, yet?" he asks.

"I have not seen Poland all evening, Emperor," France intones, "Perhaps he is spending the night in."

"A pity," Bonaparte says, "I had hoped to meet him before the conference…"

He trails off, eyes wandering beyond France. Following his gaze, France spots a tall, willowy girl in cornflower blue gliding across the dance floor to a group of women at the far end. He believes she is married, which happens to be why he had discovered her early on in the dance.

It is nice to see they still have similar tastes in women, France thinks to himself.

His little Corsican turns to Talleyrand and whispers, "Who is she?"

As Talleyrand begins to reply, France slips to the side, his own conquest now in sight. He loses himself in the crowd of dancers, of the nobles celebrating his arrival. There is the distinct impression that they are celebrating France, really. This is not only a matter of national pride; that much is more than certain. After all, France knows he is the more attractive option if it came down to it – a choice between being a subject of France's European Empire or a small, bullied Commonwealth, or whatever Poland had decided he was these days. Days past, rather, because Poland is the Duchy of Warsaw under France now.

The hall is elegant enough, and all the humans truly are pretty things, dressed up silks and cloths, no lace – but of course not, lace had been unfashionable for some years now. His particular blonde is ascending the staircase, slowly disappearing as she blends into the crowd at the top. France hurries his steps a little more, pushes past various officials with only a few pardons in spare, sloppy Polish.

He finds her fanning herself beside an idyllic portrait. It is suddenly apparent to France that he is out of breath. He quickly leans against the railing to catch it before he asks for a dance – _Dieu_, he should perhaps partake in sport more often. Hopefully his face is not ruddy, but that has never been much of a deterrent in the past, and it's not as if there aren't ruddy-faced people at this ball, anyway. She's probably been asked to dance by dozens of ruddy-faced men, right? France considers letting his face fall into his propped hand, but thinks better of it.

He approaches his conquest, clearing his throat. "_Madamoiselle_, may I have this dance?" he asks in practiced silkiness.

She spins around quite quickly and something clicks in France's brain before he even sees her face.

"Are you kidding me, your coat clashes so _bad_ with my gown, that's not even funny, like, at all."

There is no mistaking those lidded green eyes.

"_Poland?_" cries France.

"France?"

"'Tis _you_?"

"No, it's the Grand Duchy of Your Mother," Poland drawls, "Of course it's me. That's, like, a bit obvious. Who else could pull off periwinkle so fabulously?"

France's mind is jarred between reprimanding Poland for adding the "Grand," piecing together when Poland started wearing women's clothes, and inquiring on the odd choice of _periwinkle_. If France was not ruddy-faced before, he certainly is now. He feels his face burn.

And, ah, of course, Bonaparte.

France decides to get to the point. "My Emperor would like to meet you," he imparts. Unsure of what to do next – the last like man he had escorted was the Chevalier d'Éon, and that was, ah, rather different – he offers his hand. Poland _giggles_, titters like a sixteen-year-old virgin and takes it. His fingers are slim, and they must be almost as pale as his long gloves. They descend together. France watches in amazement how Poland's people pay him no mind, as if they do not even recognize their Nation, their Nation who is wearing clothing of the fairer sex. His top officials doff their hats and bow; France nods, incredulously, notices how Poland curtsies in reply. He wonders, Do they not know or are they merely playing along? Certainly, if he were to dress… but that is no matter to France.

They greet Emperor Bonaparte with the pale, tall girl he eyed before.

"May I introduce the esteemed Countess Marie Walewska," Bonaparte announces to them both. Marie curtsies, shyly. Her face appears to be drained of all color – but then, being picked by the Emperor does not happen to every Polish girl.

France clears his throat: "And may I introduce, Poland, Duchy of Warsaw." At this, Bonaparte starts and coughs a little on his champagne.

"I'm, like, totally pleased to meet you," Poland says, curtsying with perhaps a touch less skill than Marie.

"You do not speak the regular dialect," Bonaparte notes carefully, taking a generous sip of champagne.

Poland smirks: "Is that, like, a good thing or a bad thing?"

Bonaparte pauses for a moment before shrugging: "I suppose it is neither. I am yet unaccustomed to the ways of the Eastern Nations of the Continent."

"Well you'd better get on that," Poland clicks his tongue against his bottom teeth, "Prussia's digs are _so_ not me. I totally can't do the high-collar thing on these gowns."

"They are not you, you say?"

"They make me look, like, so wide in the hips. I just _can't_ wear them," Poland elaborates, fanning himself precariously.

Bonaparte looks puzzled before finally nodding his head: "Yes, Prussia we have found to be of little good taste. You will find the French fashions much more accommodating."

Ah, but his Corsican is shrewd; France adds: "I can assure you we shall erase all traces of Prussia from your house most meticulously. Your resistance has done admirably in this matter, my dear Poland."

"Well, I wouldn't be, like, so opposed to him if he didn't make me wear totally drab Protestant clothes," Poland replies thoughtfully, tapping his fan against his chin.

France worries about Bonaparte's reaction, but outwardly, it is nothing beside amusement and intrigue. Marie, however, clears her throat and holds Bonaparte's arm tighter. He reaches up and whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle a little nervously. Bonaparte smiles, although it does not quite reach his eyes.

"If you'll excuse us; the next dance," he imparts amicably. Bonaparte bows quickly to each, in the informal manner France so enjoys about him, before trotting towards the center of the hall, arm-in-arm with the countess. Poland either smirks or is merely smiling, France is not certain. How sly Poland's green eyes are. He really does make quite a fetching woman; and really, what was so bad about it? France feels a heat stir within him, and remembers the resolve he made earlier that night.

"Poland," France turns to him, mouth curling deviously, "Would you care to accompany me to somewhere a little more private?"

This time, France is sure Poland is smirking: "I thought you'd, like, never ask."

In the left wing library, Poland manages to rip France's waistcoat from his body, letting it collapse in a heap behind him. France in turn looses the ribbon around Poland's waist, as Poland works at France's cravat. They slam against a bookshelf, heads rolling as their tongues crash against each other, hands running over each other's bodies, fingers wresting cloth, skin. France runs his nails down the back of Poland's neck. He wishes his fingers would not tremble so, how unsteady he must seem. They wander up and unravel Poland's hair. Locks of it fall down against Poland's shoulders – really too pretty to be a man, France thinks, moans to himself, wonders dizzily as Poland's knee slides between France's thighs.

France runs his hands over a stay that shouldn't be there, that is there to constrain the breasts Poland does not have. It is short, and the soft cotton of the chemise under it is so darling and familiar. France licks his lips, hopes that the door truly is locked, admires how green Poland's eyes are at this proximity. For a split moment he feels spied upon until Poland speaks again.

"Go on, fuck me," Poland exclaims, his voice breaking like a girl's. His eyes close, desperately, pleadingly.

France grunts with the effort of pinning Poland to the shelf, hands massaging his thighs. They are delightfully slim, pale from what the rest of his skin's pigmentation indicates. Ah, _Dieu_, how the stockings crinkle as Poland shudders in France's grip. France presses his hips forward, ever so slightly, and as Poland's ass keeps one hand pinned to the bookshelf, France tugs off a glove on the other with his teeth.

"God," he hears Poland say from the shelf, "You are, like, so fucking handsome."

France very nearly smirks as he shakes the rest of the glove from his hand, lets it drop to the floor. "And you are most beautiful, _mon cher_." He runs his tongue along Poland's jaw, pauses to suck his neck dry of sweat, lap it all up on his tongue and listen to Poland moan in the most wanton voice France can ever recall having the pleasure to hear. He murmurs trails of French into Poland's pale skin.

How had he never seen it before? France hitches Poland up further, catches his breath. Womanly fashions for men, yes, he certainly enjoyed those, but he had never thought of actually – _wearing_ women's clothing. And how Poland writhes, how easy it is for France to slip his bare hand under the tent of muslin into Poland's drawers and curl his fist around him, feeling him up and down and up and down. Oh yes, this makes everything so much _easier_.

Poland arches into France's hand and tightens his legs around France's back and their hips are flush against each other, _yes_. Oh _Dieu_, France is hard, he is so hard and Poland is doing nothing but teasing him, mercilessly, circling and circling his hips as his hands stay put around France's neck, unraveling the ribbon tying back his hair. Their lips come together again as Poland slides down a little – his jeweled shoes touch the ground and France feels him groping at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons of his trousers to untuck it. He helps Poland – well, he tries to help when his entire head, his entire _body_ is hot and _fuck_, he cannot take his eyes off of Poland. Poland manages to untuck the shirt, loose the buttons and it slides off France's shoulders into the crook of his elbows. The room is cold for only a moment before France presses himself up against the other man, growls into his neck when Poland's finger flicks a nipple with almost flighty naughtiness.

France grabs one of his gloved wrists: "Take them off, _Pologne_, let me feel you…" He bends in to press his lips to Poland's earlobe, hungrily. Yes, yes, Poland is quite the little tease. But he obliges France and lets him tug the gloves from his arms, exposing pale, nearly translucent skin, the palest France has ever seen, paler than _England's_. France bends, kneels, takes one arm to his mouth, tonguing it, sucking and biting the skin until it bruises. He kisses a trail down to his fingers, taking them one by one into his mouth, feeling Poland stroke his tongue, hearing breathy laughter somewhere above him, indiscernible strings of Polish. He bites down on Poland's fingers as punishment, and Poland groans, curling his knuckles. France releases his teeth and Poland withdraws his hand, wet with France's saliva, trails of it dripping from both mouth and hand to the carpeted floor. And then Poland puts his fingers in his _own_ mouth, and – _Dieu_, oh, France cannot think anymore. He braces himself against the shelf and rises, undoes the hooks and buttons of his trousers, gasps when he frees his cock.

"For God's sake, France, touch me," Poland breathes, fingers hovering against France's skin.

France answers the call, soundly.


End file.
